


Speak of the Devil (and he shall appear)

by forever_nerd



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Hell, Horny Chloe Decker, Let Chloe Get Laid 2020, Lightbringer, Monster cuddling, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Reunions, Samael - Freeform, being in love, devil feels, guilty devil, horny devil, powerful devil, really sad devil, shy devil, soft insecure devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_nerd/pseuds/forever_nerd
Summary: A multichapter fic with Devil pov (not necessarily in chronological order!)Starting off with Hell.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 76
Kudos: 200





	1. Nude

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of sad devil feels. A LOT.

_Don’t get any big ideas_

_They’re not gonna happen_

Lucifer wishes he could lose count of all these years spent in desolation in Hell. Decades upon decades that sit upon his soul like an unbearable burden.

One that he has no choice but to endure.  
  
The first century was the hardest.  
  
Not that the pain has lessened since then.

By no means, no.  
  


The ache of her absence is constant and agonizing.  
  


Excruciating.  
  


Devastating.  
  
But he has made himself grow harder-he had to.  
  
Back in the beginning of his self-imposed exile, his heart was still too soft and her taste still lingered on his lips, on his tongue.  
  
Her voice still rang loud and clear when she begged him to stay, again and again in his mind's eye.  
  
He remembered the exact shape of her tears, the way they sparkled in the dark like diamonds, teardrops he would rather have hung on her ears than see them leave their marks on her skin.  
  
But most of all he remembered all too vividly the gut wrenching pain of the inevitable.  
  
Knowing that there was, _is_ , nothing he could do to avoid hurting the one person that mattered, that matters still.  
  
And the sheer agony, the torture of leaving her desire unsatisfied, unfulfilled.  
  
The only one she ever voiced to him.  
  
 _Please don't leave.  
_  
Lucifer had spent thousands of years among humans and he had satisfied countless desires, be it meaningless little things that held no specific appeal to him beyond their fulfillment or naughty things in which he found more pleasure than expected.  
  
But it was _seeing_ all those desires fulfilled that satisfied him. He enjoyed giving life to all those dark, little wants that they dared not admit- not even to themselves.  
  
 _Please...  
_  
But Chloe...  
  
 _I love you.  
_  
After everything, to ask him, _nay_ to beg him to stay,

  
_Please,_   
  


voice trembling, full of tears,  
  


while he stood there completely powerless to satisfy the one, the _only_ desire that had ever truly mattered.  
  
The only desire he yearned to fulfill more than anything.  
  
To have her utter those words, to have such nectar drip from her lips and to be unable to do anything but hurt her.  
  
Yes, that first century was indeed the hardest.  
  


  
It wasn't like he had forgotten. No, his eidetic memory made no such allowances.  
  
But he had forced himself to turn them away from the forefront of his mind because one way or another he had to survive here.  
  
And not just survive, no, he had to _rule_.

He had been forced to wear a skin he had ignored for almost too long. In those first moments when the ash eagerly coated his eyelashes and his feathers, the King's mantle felt almost unfamiliar- it scuffed against his skin like the suit of another man, ill-fitting and just _not_ right.

Spending all those years with her had changed him-he had had to blunt all his sharp edges, to quiet his easy anger, to bury that desire to rule.

No matter what had happened near the end, the truth was that he was not the same Devil that had landed here years ago.

But there had been no time to ease into it, to tailor it to this softer version of himself.

  
Perhaps it had been for the best. Hell was not a place that tolerated any kind of softness.

  
It was with the memory of her terrified face as rotting corpses tore her from him that he made himself hard enough and harder still to exact all the due punishments.  
  
No one should dare disobey the King of Hell, no matter where he is.  
  
And no one would _ever_ dare touch _her_ again.  
  
But once the spectacles of the punishments had come to an end and his demonic subjects had scuttled away in terror, all he was left with was thoughts of her and how he had abandoned her.

  
_  
I need to keep them contained,_  
  
he had told her and it was the truth.  
  
The only truth he could focus on.

Not her _I love you_  
  


not that,  
  


no—

  
because then he would have stayed.  
  
He would have dropped on his knees and begged her to speak those three little words again and again, his heart full and his mouth fuller with words that he was yet unable to utter.  
  
But then what?  
  
He imagined dead hands, borrowed hands pulling at her, eager to hurt and he _knows_.  
  
He knows he had made the right choice. As much as it had hurt, as much as he felt, as he _still_ feels, his heart being ripped out and its muscles burnt layer after layer, like a falling star disintegrating in a blaze of glory, meeting its death in brilliance.  
  
Because knowing that it was the right thing, the selfless thing to do, made it no less painful.  
  
Even now, he tries desperately to keep her off his mind. To focus on ruling, on inspiring fear back into their heartless skins.  
  
And fails spectacularly almost all the time (thankfully only at the first task.)  
  


She is constantly on his mind.

  
He doesn't think of that night though.  
  
He thinks of others that might have come had the fates been kinder to them.  
  
He hoards these imaginary moments, like a dragon hoards gold and gems.

He gathers them close to his heart where nothing can touch them, nothing can touch _her_ , and looks upon them again and again, drunk by their beauty, their brilliant shine, their unfathomable warmth.  
  
His mind, his heart is saturated with her presence.

_I am hardly a schoolgirl_ , he had told his brother once.

Oh, but he feels like one now-fantasizing, pining for a love he knows is as elusive as it is hopeless.  
  


(And there is a truth, buried deep down, a truth he dares not admit even to himself.

He hopes. It’s a small and fragile thing, like a tiny bird held between his palms. He hopes that he might return and she might still love him. That she might smile and welcome him back with open arms.

But he knows it’s a childish and impossible kind of hope, thus he keeps it hidden away, unacknowledged, but keeps it still.

Because even the Devil needs hope, false as it may be.)  
  
When the heat is nearly insufferable, he thinks of mornings under the hot California sun, his Detective clad in a lovely bikini, lying next to him on the sand.  
  


He would admire her, hands chaste and eyes fiery, and kiss the salt on her skin.  
  
When his stomach twists with the phantom ache of hunger he thinks of dinners at expensive restaurants where he would show off his more fancy suits and his extensive culinary knowledge like a bloody peacock, while she would tease him mercilessly about it.  
  
And he would let her do so with a smile on his lips.  
  
And since it's his fantasies, when the absence of music becomes too much, he thinks of nights in Lux, bathed in the warmth of those lights, her body wrapped around his on the dance floor, moving to the ebb and flow of music, his mind eagerly providing a different melody every time.

In his mind they tango and slow dance and grind against each other, eyes locked and bodies eager and aching.

They kiss and touch and dance, their desire a living, breathing thing between them, the taste of whiskey and Chloe on his lips.  
  
And finally, when his loneliness becomes too overwhelming, too devastating to endure, he thinks of nights.

(He doesn’t want to maim those thoughts with the misery that permeates this place. But in this, he is only human, too weak to resist her pull.)

Nights that they would spend learning each other in the only way they hadn't yet. 

And mornings, and afternoons and evenings...  
  
It mattered not where the sun stood so long as she was with him.  
  
Lucifer was never an enthusiast of delayed gratification. It did have its merits but he had always been more of an instant gratification kind of devil.  
  
But the Detective had changed all that. He had fallen in love and waited and pined with his heart in his throat and right when it seemed like it could have worked between them…

All hell had broken loose.

Well, not all hell. Just the Devil.

But it was more than enough.  
  


His dream of love and well, delayed gratification, had crumbled to dust and all he had been left with were his sad, sad thoughts and well… a lot of sad wanking.

(Like now in a way.)

When the time was surprisingly right again- a horde of demons had invaded Los Angeles.

It seemed like the odds were never in their favor.  
  


And so, even after countless years, he finds himself wondering...  
  
What would she have been like?  
  
Would she have been shy and soft in her affections or forward and demanding?  
  
Would she have voiced her desires willingly, unable as he was to suss them out, or would she have squirmed under his gaze, cheeks blushing and teeth biting into skin he would much rather have between his?  
  
Either way he dares not decide. Because deciding would have an air of finality to it and he wouldn't be able to stand this, not here.  
  
  
He thinks of her in endless little scenarios, thoughts that warm his heart and other parts of him with a heat that has nothing to do with this wretched place.  
  


It's warm honey, sweet and thick, flowing inside him, a slow avalanche of feelings that only Chloe has ever inspired in him.

And he cherishes it, that feeling, even if he is barely able to hold on it, because he knows it’s the closest he’ll ever get to her.  
  
And he is certain, if he had ever been blessed with such moments, they would slip between his fingers like grains of sand, quickly, inevitably, when every moment in hell drags on,

heavy like an axe pushing into his chest,

sharp like a knife stuck into his shoulder,

draining like a bullet to his stomach.

Had his flesh truly ached as much as his soul does now? He doubts it.  
  
And either way, it matters not. Hell is a torture he will endure silently forever if it means keeping her safe.  
  


Keeping all of them safe.

He thinks about her almost all the time.  
  
Even though he shouldn't.  
  
He closes his eyes, seeing her one last time before banishing her to his most private thoughts, away from the problems of his reality, from all this death and punishment and unfairness.  
  
He opens them again and surveys his kingdom.  
  
Now all he lets himself taste is ash,  
  
-his wants reduced to floating specks of grey all around him-  
  
and sulfur  
  
-the smell of his rotting dreams permeating the air.  
  
  


~*~

_You paint yourself white_

_And fill up with noise_

_But there’ll be something missing_

He feels so empty and yet so full.  
  
His heart although full to the brim with all this love feels hollowed out.

What is he to do with it if he can't show it to her?  
  
He feels saturated with this eternal darkness but this _light_ is building up relentlessly inside him, a side-effect of this bloody self- actualization.

The power of creation is thrumming under his skin once more and he has no idea what to do with it here. It’s swelling and growing and he shakes with the sheer magnitude of that power.  
  
Maybe a few times he incinerates- _unintentionally_ \- a couple of demons locking horns.

They all stay away from him after that, scurrying into caves and underground hide-outs.

It’s not just that they are terrified-it literally hurts them to look at him.

There is a glow to him-his skin shines with the paleness of the moon-the light emanating from his wings much brighter.

But even worse, he can feel this energy, this force running though him, sparks of light that travel from fingertip to fingertip, setting alight his entire being.

His divinity strains against the confines of his body.

And they can feel it too.

  
He needs to do something or the bloody thing will start shooting out if his eyes, like a bloody mutant.  
  
So, millennia later, he becomes Lightbringer once more.

Hell's sky becomes the home of a spiral of tiny blue stars, small enough to fit in this plane of existence- a blue whirlpool that looks suspiciously like a certain Detective's eyes.

Or like tiny blue fireflies dancing around lazily, as a certain urchin would suggest, lighting up somewhat this perpetual twilight.

  
Lighting up his hellish home mutes his power some, but he can feel it still, accumulating, demanding his attention.  
  


~*~

_Now that you’ve found it, it’s gone_

_Now that you feel it, you don’t_

_You’ve gone off the rails_

  
His life, not surprisingly, is an unfathomable period of time for a human to perceive. Count in the time dilation in hell and Lucifer has been around far longer than any of his siblings.   
  


But now he can easily divide it- despite all the countless events that had taken place, all the people he had met, all those times his Father ignored him, all those fights with Amenadiel.  
  
Her eyes, that look she gave him the first time they had met, blue as the skies and sharper than hell forged steel, is the dagger that cuts across the fabric of his life.  
  
It's simple really.  
  
There is his life before her.  
  
And then there is his life after her.  
  
He makes promises to himself to leave her be, to keep her memory clean, unmarred by the filth of his kingdom.  
  
Unsurprisingly though, the promises he makes to himself are the only ones he breaks.  
  
For he cannot help himself.  
  
She is always there.  
  
 _Chloe,_

_Chloe,_

_Chloe._  
  
His heartbeats rhyme to the sound of her name.  
  
She is his star, one not created _by_ him but _for_ him

(he fears/

he hopes/

he loathes/

he longs).

The only star in this endless, moonless night.  
  
The only light in this dark expanse that is his life once again, breathing warmth into his ancient body.  
  
He cannot be without her here, not now.  
  


And since he could never bear to have Chloe here, he settles for the next best thing.

  
His memories, his fantasies.

~*~

_So, don’t get any big ideas_

_They’re not gonna happen_

He longs for sleep. He misses the way he could just surrender to it- those long, deep, satisfying slumbers.  
  


It's not that he isn't tired. His exhaustion runs bone deep.

Hell is like a leech, draining you, only unlike a leech, it never really stops.  
  
He wants to sleep, he does, but as always his mind finds her.  
  
He is weak.

Weak and pathetic.  
  
Hoping against all hope that there is still an inkling of love left in her heart for him.  
  
She did say she loved him, did she not?  
  
So long ago for him but it echoes still, just as powerful as he first heard it.  
  
But he left.

Abandoned her while she lay her heart at his feet and begged, again and again.  
  
Did she hate him?  
  


Called him names and smashed to pieces that lovely frame she had in her home of them?  
  


Did she regret her affections? Her love?  
  
Did she understand?

Did she forgive him?  
  
Was there any love left in her heart for him? Or was it just anger and regrets?  
  
He doesn't fool himself into hoping that she still thinks of him like he does.  
  
Sometimes he fears he is being horribly unfair to her, thinking her love could so easily diminish.  
  
But she is human and no matter how hard they loved sooner or later they fell out of love.  
  


And he wanted that for her. He wanted her to be happy and safe...  
  
even if it was without him.  
  


Chloe Jane Decker.  
  


Detective extraordinaire.

  
Turning the Devil into a corny mess.  
  
His decades were probably weeks or months for her, enough time to let go of a hopeless, condemned, futureless love.

  
And, for better or for worse, her world is so full of lovely distractions- even if no one will ever be worthy of his Detective.  
  


Not _his_.

Just _the_ Detective.  
  
Never really his, as much as he wanted her to be.  
  
And never really hers too, not the way he would have wanted at least.  
  
Because in a way she did own him.  
  
Bit by bit she had mended his scorched heart and now it belonged to her completely.  
  
Even when Eve had taken residence in his house and had tried to do so with his heart, it had refused entrance.  
  
Chloe had made him feel dishonest almost all the time.

Because he couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop that hopeless pining, that yearning, no matter how intense the distractions employed were.  
  
She had haunted him in his most private moments; surrounded by dark eyes and even darker, lustrous hair when all he wanted was the brightness of the sun and the endlessness of the sea.  
  
And still he pines. Still he lingers.

They say that your first love stays with you forever.

Oh, they will never know how right they are.

But Lucifer does.

He knows.

  
~*~

_You’ll go to Hell_

_For what your dirty mind_

_is thinking_

No one is allowed in his chambers. His weapons rest beside him on the bed, his winds outstretched, his primaries fanning out, sharper than anything.

But the touch is so soft, so unlike anything that Hell has to offer, that his eyes blink slowly awake, delightedly soaking up this sweet revelry.  
  
Her smell is the first thing he fully registers, making all his senses sharp as he turns around quickly.

  
Staring back at him are eyes so vividly blue that make everything even more colorless in this drab world.

  
"Chlo--" he tries but her lips cover his in a kiss that makes everything inside him melt.

It rights all the wrongs.

It breathes life back into him.  
  
It's only lips on lips but it's _her_ -  
  


her lips,

her smell,

her taste.  
  


Chloe.  
  


_Chloe, Chloe, Chloe._

  
His heart goes off, galloping like a desert horse.  
  


He doesn't think, he _can't_ think.

All he can do is press closer, kiss longer, inhale deeper.  
  


When she pulls away he feels her exhale on his skin but dares not open his eyes.  
  


"I missed you," she says and her voice does it.

It shakes him out of this drunken haze.  
  


"You can't be here. You shouldn't be here," he says, anguish colouring his voice.  
  
He stands on his bed and so does she.  
  


She's wearing one of his white shirts, like that night-that _lovely_ night, but it's wrong.  
  


Oh, it's so _wrong._ _  
  
_

There is a huge red stain on her left breast.  
  


"No, no, no, nonono," he says in an endless loop, tearing at buttons, a move so practiced in his fantasies while in the midst of their heated kisses, but it feels so horribly wrong, because it's not to admire, not to kiss and touch but only to confirm the unfathomable.

To see the red mangled gaping wound right where her heart should be. Blood is still trickling down her skin, painting it red but he can't see, he _can't_ , not with all this wetness in his eyes.  
  


"No, Chloe, _no_ ," he sobs but she merely smiles back sweetly.  
  


"I just missed you so much Lucifer," she tells him. "You left. You left even though I begged you to stay. You left me no other option- I had to come to you."  
  


"I’m sorry-I am! I had no choice—“he cries desperate but she stops him with two bloody fingers on his lips.

  
"It barely hurt. All I had to give away to be with you was my heart. Well, that was yours anyway. Now it's finally here, where you are."

  
He kisses her fingers and even _her blood_ tastes lovely and what kind of _monster_ is he really to condemn her to this?

  
"NO! You don't belong here. You belong in the Silver City but not now, not yet! You should be alive you can't be here!"

  
"But I'm here now. Don't-don't you want me?" she stutters, eyes hurt.

He can’t bear to consider her question.  
  


"I-I d-don’t want _this_. I only ever wanted your love."  
  


"You have that and so much more Lucifer. Aren't you happy I’m here?"  
  
"This can't be! Hell draws in the guilty-why would you—“  
  


He stops talking, confused by the way she's staring at him, smile soft and eyes ancient. Her hands cradle his face with such tenderness it hurts.

She leans in, eyes meeting and whispers against his lips,  
  


"Oh Lucifer. Don't fret my love. I am right where I should be.” He shakes his head in denial and she stops him with a kiss on his lips. Eyes locked, she whispers against his lips,

“I’ve got guilt to spare thanks to the Devil."

  
He jolts awake before her lips touch his again.  
  
A dream. A nightmare.  
  


His fingers push into his eyes, tears of relief, of happiness escaping the corners of his eyes.  
  
She is not here. She is safe and well.  
  


Better off without him and all the terror and poison he carries under his skin.  
  
Sometimes his hatred for his Father burns with an intensity he finds hard to contain in this body. Particularly when He turns out to be right.  
  
For as much as he hates Samael... Well, He was right, wasn't He?  
  


Poison... That's all he is.

Even to her.

_Especially_ to her.

No matter how much he loves, all that remains is the pain, the heartbreak, the suffering he caused.

  
He watches his skin change, the red spreading like lava on his skin, incinerating everything.

A true monster, inside out.

He wraps his leathery wings around him and closes his eyes, keeping his tears for himself only.  
  



	2. No light, no light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More hellish thoughts and... a change. 
> 
> A BIG change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter in hell.  
> So, more angst with a bit of sunshine at the end.

_You are the hole in my head_ _  
You are the space in my bed  
  
_

When he walks among them wearing his red skin they are less afraid. More eager to please than disappear.  
  
A monster closer to their absent hearts.  
  
They are fool enough to believe that he can't smite them in this form.  
  
Oh, but he can. His eyes burn with a manic flame too eager to destroy anything in his path given the chance.  
  
As he roams the vastness of hell, he stares at the countless rooms with a nostalgic melancholy. He used to enjoy doling out punishments, discovering the intricacies of human nature, unraveling all their suppressed guilt.  
  
Now, he avoids them like the plague.  
  
He gets too caught up in their suffering and pain but mostly in the unfairness of their eternal damnation, the idea of it resonating much more profoundly inside him.  
  
Besides, he already has too much misery festering inside him to deal with any more.   
  
Once he allows himself back in the grace of her mental presence though, the red is quick to disappear.

  
Perhaps too quick for his liking.  
  
And off they go again, hiding from the light.

_You are the silence in between_ _  
What I thought and what I said_

He seeks solitude all the time and they make it so easy for him. They have long stopped seeking him out.

He finds it easier to be himself when he is alone. He is always quick to anger here, his patience running too thin with them.  
  
  
He used to count the years, the decades. Now time has no meaning. Perhaps it's better this way.  
  
Counting creates certain expectations- as if one was waiting for something to happen.  
  
Lucifer has nothing to look forward to. The only thought that brings him comfort is that she will be safe. Safe and surrounded by people who love her.  
  
So, why count? Why torment himself with the idea that he might still have time- time to somehow fix this, to make his way back to her?

  
It's unnecessarily cruel, even for him, the champion of self-hatred.  
  
He doesn't know exactly how long it has been but he can feel it is long, _so_ very long.  
  
For he feels so tired. Exhausted in a way he had never been before.  
  
His role is one he used to tolerate only thanks to all those lovely breaks topside where he let go of all the stench and misery that clung to his skin.  
  


Sex and drinks and drugs and momentary friendships; little morsels of escapism whenever Hell became too much.  
  
But now...  
  
Oh, he _wants_ to go. His entire being vibrates with his desire.  
  
But that desire is a double serrated knife.  
  
For there is only one person he wishes to visit.  
  
If she was still thinking about him, still desired him, he would only serve to hurt her when it would be time to leave again. Soon, too soon.  
  


And if she were over him... If he were to find her in the arms of another (reasonable, only reasonable)... well he imagines that would be... _understandable_ and _entirely_ too painful to handle.  
  
Why make them suffer-especially her?  
  
So, he sits in his kingdom of ash, the time going by a shapeless, unknowable thing that he leaves alone, like a dangerous beast whose teeth cut too deep every time they bite.  
  
Sometimes (and _only_ for the barest of moments) he wishes he had never met her. Then he wouldn't have known of this _thing_ , of this all consuming ache that scrapes his heart raw, makes it as ravaged as his skin was the first time he crashed in this Dad-forsaken place.  
  
But be quickly finds himself regretting the very thought.  
  


No matter what it has cost him, Chloe is the best thing that ever happened to him.  
  
He just wishes...  
  


He doesn't know what exactly he wishes for.  
  


For time, for better luck, for another chance.  
  
But mostly for love. Her love.  
  
For a chance to have known what her love would feel like.  
  
  


Instead he walks the rocky outcrops, his light casting long shadows behind him, pretending.  
  
Pretending that she doesn't hold the moon and all the stars against her breast.

Pretending that the sun doesn't rise and fall at the crown of her hair.  
  


Pretending that he can actually do this and still be someone she could recognize, someone she could love.  
  
Sometimes it works.

It's no surprise, not really.  
  
He could always lie so _beautifully_ to himself.

_You are the night-time fear_ _  
You are the morning when it's clear_

  
He thinks obsessively over all the moments they had shared.  
  


Those calculating looks in their beginning, her sharp blue eyes trying to see right through him.  
  


Soft, vulnerable moments when all her angles melted and her eyes shone like liquid mirrors.  
  


And kisses. Kisses so soft, so precious that made his heart spasm with an ache like no other. An ache full of want, of love. Full of a tenderness that he had no idea his heart was capable of.  
  
And, finally, he thinks of tears.

Of the stench of terror and a fear that he never wanted to see in her eyes.  
  


Oh, her betrayal had hurt so much, too much, but it was her inability to accept him, all parts of him, that had cut deeper than anything.  
  
The way she had left that night, eyes red rimmed and face horror stricken, it will stay with him forever.  
  
Forgiveness was not an easy concept for Lucifer.  
  


He had never really forgiven his father or his siblings for what had happened.  
  
Nor had he fully forgiven himself. He still struggled with it.  
  
But forgiveness had come so easily for her, quickly and effortlessly, like a flower opening its petals at the first hint of sunlight and leaning helplessly to that warmth.  
  
He misses her so desperately. He feels like a huge chunk of him has been torn off, and he is walking around a mangled mess, missing, always missing his most vital of parts.  
  
He always found the Brontë sisters overly dramatic but now Heathcliff's words are finally making sense.  
  
 _I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul.  
_  
And like Heathcliff he longs for her haunting- and hers is a much kinder haunting than Cathy's.  
  
She isn't his, she was never meant to be his, even if—  
  


even if for some reason she was created by his Father.  
  
Her life is like the scattering of a dandelion in the wind; beautiful, whimsical but also quick and inevitable while he stands here older than time itself.  
  
Bastard that he was though, he coveted her long before he realized that he wanted her, craved for her in a way that was both new and startling, as terrifying and confusing as the first time he bled in her presence.  
  
And he wants her still. Covets her still.

_When it's over you'll start_ _  
You're my head, you're my heart_

  
He wonders at his subconscious. What is happening in there to make him like _this._  
  
He remembers what it felt like to be Samael, one of God's archangels, always ready to do his bidding.

That sheer power that coursed through his body.  
  
But this feels different. More intense.  
  
It's probably his fault.  
  
Self-actualization at work once more if he had to guess.  
  
Now, his powers bleed out of him with every step that he takes-cracks and crevasses forming on the ground wherever he steps.  
  
At one point, too fed up with them, he decides to _redecorate._  
  
Mountains crumble to the ground and where there once was an endless expanse of ash covered barren fields, gorges are formed, splitting the earth in jagged patterns.  
  
All by the force of his will.

Time passes slowly, inexorably, and bit by bit his light fills him up again.  
  
He misses colours so much that he makes his own Aurora Borealis dance in the skies. They are not like the real thing, they couldn't -not here, but they are still beautiful.  
  
But all these distractions are eventually devoured by the insatiable hunger that rules this hapless and dreary place.  
  
And he is left, as always, alone.  
  


_Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone in the wide, wide sea!_

_And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony._ _  
  
_He wishes he could stand guard between these creatures and what used to be his people, like a mindless sentinel, passionless and unaware, without memories and desires, without all this pain, both the good and the bad.  
  


For the first time ever, he wishes that he couldn’t feel that, to answer Will’s eternal question, _he were not._ _  
  
_

Years, hours, days, months.

Time has ceased to have any meaning. A single minute can feel longer than months, and years go by in the blink of an eye.  
  
Lucifer roams the destitution of Hell's landscape.

  
He thinks of her and in his pain destroys.  
  


He misses her and in his love creates.  
  


He longs for her and in his despair he prays-not to his Father, not to _him_.  
  


He prays to Chloe.  
  


For smiles and looks and dances,  
  


for cheap wine and burgers and lollipops,  
  


for games and gifts and ... _more_.

So much more.  
  
Does it really matter though?  
  
His prayers had always fallen on deaf ears.  
  
  


_But would you leave me  
If I told you what I've done  
And would you leave me  
If I told you what I've become_

_'Cause it's so easy  
To say it to a crowd  
But it's so hard, my love  
To say it to you out loud_

  
The denizens of hell have not really appreciated his efforts at redecorating.

There was an attempt, if one could call it such, to dethrone him (preferably with a decapitation).  
  
It wasn't exactly entertaining but it did offer some sort of excitement. A chance to stretch his muscles, both physical and mental.  
  
Primaries slashed through rotting flesh and fingers detached limbs from bodies. It was fast and messy but the fun had ended abruptly when he felt that numbing telltale sensation of someone trying to cross the barrier.  
  
 _They will never learn._  
  
At once, all the demons surrounding him, lay suspended in the air. He shrugged away his wings, so that they’d be able to watch, and turned to face the Gates. Their heads, against their will, turned in the same direction, like disembodied puppets.

  
His eyes burned crimson and they all watched together the bright flares of light in the distance. Six of them.  
  
"Possession. Is. Forbidden." he whispered harshly in the eerie silence and their bodies crashed forcefully into the craggy ground.  
  
"Next time I shall not be as merciful. Next time there will be torture."  
  
He walked away slowly, towards the Gates.  
  
As much as he loathes these attempts, few as they were, they offer something very precious.

  
A renewed sense of purpose. It's not hard to forget why your presence is imperative after decades of inactivity.  
  


Perhaps he should be thanking the bloody bastards instead of smiting them.

But he cannot take any chances.  
  
Here, different rules apply.

  
He may be a creature of light, but this world he is trapped in is one of darkness, as are its denizens.  
  


King or no King he has to play by their rules.  
  


Merciless and cruel and monstrous.  
  
Just as she had once thought of him.  
  


_No light, no light in your bright blue eyes_ _  
I never knew daylight could be so violent_

_A revelation in the light of day_

_You can’t choose what stays and what fades away_

He is asleep. Not in his tower, on his bed. He is lying in an exhausted heap in one of the caves near the Gates.  
  
It wakes him at once, as if a bucket of ice cold water has been dumped on him.  
  
He looks around frantically, heart in his throat, but there is nothing- no one but him.  
  
 _Chloe._

_It's Chloe._ _  
_  
Her voice is like music,

like the sun,

like a caress.

It sets him alight- a fire that doesn’t burn, doesn’t destroy but breathes life back into him.  
  
He falls to his knees and listens, his heart beating at a frantic, disjointed rhythm, his eyes wet, his hands leaving their imprints on the stone floor.  
  
 _I love you._  
  
  
He shakes

or the ground does

or all of Hell.  
  
He doesn't know.  
  
Every atom of his being is saturated with it and he feels heavy, _too heavy_ , and it aches—

he inhales raggedly, a sob, and upon the exhale—

  
  


_Let there be light.  
_  
  
It pours out of him violently, bursts of light that destroy everything around him—and then a shine so bright, so warm that Hell knows daylight for the first time in countless millennia.

_She loves me. She loves me still._

He cries, on his knees, the brightest of stars.

Sweet bliss and a heartache so deep tangle and twist inside him and he’s dizzy with it,

can’t tell which way is up,

left to right.

He stays, still as a statue, her words echoing in a continuous loop in his mind for hours.

Or days.

When he lifts himself off the sizzled ground he realizes that he is nude-his clothes obviously incinerated in that blaze of light.

He breathes in, sulfur and ash still, but something has changed.

Is it him or Hell? Or both?

It should matter but he can’t spare any more thought to it.

His mind is full to the brim with her.

She prayed to him.

She prayed.

_this is for you,_ she thought.

A poem. She had read him a poem. Chloe who barely had time to read the newspaper had read _poetry_. For _him_.

_  
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you._

If only he could pray back to her. Does she know? Is she aware how his every thought is of her? How he longs to be by her side?

_In one of the tenses I singing_ _an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.  
  
_

_Oh darling. I can. I can,_ he thinks with amounting despair.

_For I am in love with you_ _and this is what it is like_

_or what it is like in words._

It’s a sweet pain but it cuts _so_ deep. There is no blood, there cannot be any-not without her, but it stings, a rusty knife twisting in his heart.

After the initial shock wears off, he asks himself a very important question.

Was that her very own goodbye, before letting him go, for good this time?

Or was it the beginning of some kind of communication?

He knows that with the time dilation he can’t really expect anything for quite some time.

But the real question is…

What will he do if she keeps this up?

Will he stay here, worlds apart, while they pine helplessly for each other?

There must be a way. He needs to find a way.

_You want a revelation_  
Some kind of resolution  
Tell me what you want me to say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the little univerese existing in my head I always knew what it was that motivated Lucifer to find a way to leave Hell.
> 
> It was always Chloe and her prayers. So, this does tie in in my other story (Memory, proper noun of sorrows).
> 
> The idea of how Lucifer does manage to leave Hell has been there from the beginning-it was even hinted at in the first chapter of this.  
> I might write it. Or not. We'll see.
> 
> The lyrics are from 'No light, no light' by Florence and the Machine.  
> The poem is by Carol Ann Duffy 'Words, wide night'  
> 'Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone in the wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony' is by S. Coleridge.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Work song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer finds a way to leave hell  
> And... time for reunion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more left. It will be the M chapter.  
> Should be up in a few days.

_Boys working on empty_

_Is that the kind of way to face the burning heat?_

_I just think about my baby_

_I’m so full of love_

_I could barely eat_

He repeats the poem to himself like a mantra, while he tries to come up with a plan, any sort of idea that will enable him to leave this wretched place at least for periods of time.

He is filled with this jittery energy, unable and unwilling to rest, while he rejects ideas one after the other.

He cannot rely on their good faith. On words or promises.

They cannot be trusted.

He thinks of asking for help; he thinks hard for a long time wondering if any of his siblings would be willing to share this burden with him. He can think of only one who would answer that call. But he cannot ask that of Amenadiel. Maybe if things had been different, if he didn’t have any responsibilities—

but he does.

He _does_ and they have names.

And Lucifer… he cares about them too much to ask for Amenadiel’s help.

He waits, and he hopes and he tries to come up with something while his light is slowly becoming a blaze within him again.

And then at some point,

_Lucifer_

Everything stops again. And he listens. Another poem. For him.

_having you here would be better,_ she tells him among other words.

She wants him there. She wouldn’t have chosen these specific words if she didn’t… Would she?

He must find a way. He _must_.

He thinks of those last words,

_I miss you_

_hers_ , just hers and he wishes he could send his words back to her so that she would know too.

He too would love to recite poetry to her, love poems to show her the way he feels and put some colour on those lovely cheeks.

_Your knees, your breasts,_ _  
your waist  
are missing parts of me like the hollow  
of a thirsty earth  
from which they broke off  
a form,  
and together  
we are complete like a single river,  
like a single grain of sand._

Would he shock her with something like this? Perhaps. But she must know by now that it’s hard for the Devil to keep his thoughts completely chaste.

~*~

Having her back into his present, not through memories or fantasies but actual thoughts, destined for him alone, is like coming back from the dead.  
  
He feels much more intensely and he wants _to be_ , to run to her side.  
  
But mostly he remembers what _hope_ , real, unfettered hope feels like.  
  
It's a torrent, a wild, unstoppable thing that overwhelms him and he prays that he doesn't drown in it.  
  
After a lot of time wasted in fruitless planning, he realizes that if he is to leave this place he needs to change his tactics.

His approach.  
  


And unfortunately, deep down he knows what he ought to do to make his departure possible.

But he loathes the idea.  
  
In the beginning, he refuses to acknowledge it as it reminds him too much of his Father.  
  
But time relentlessly keeps going by, no better plans come up, and Chloe floods his mind and his heart with more words.  
  


_…where your sad, sad heat is, and sing to you in the night…_

That pure melancholy tears down his walls of pride and Lucifer is ready for the next step, the _only_ step, whether it is his Father’s jam, or not.  
  
Decision made, he waits and lets his light burn brighter, hoping that he will pull through.  
  
Hoping that it will work.  
  
And time, bloody time weighs so heavily on him

-not knowing exactly how long it’s been for her

and uncertain of how long it’s been for him

(since those first words the flow of time has become… bizzare. It twists and whorls in unknowable ways, making Hell even stranger than before.)  
  
Once he can feel his light thrum like an electric current under his skin, he knows it's time.

  
He goes to the place where he had heard her first prayer. It used to be an elaborate maze of caves but now there is nothing but dust and ash.  
  
He does not consider himself to be as powerful as his parents but he is not after the same outcome. And he thinks he can do it, for _her_ if not for himself.  
  
He closes his eyes and focuses his thoughts, his _will_ on this desire.  
  


His eyes turn crimson and the glow around him intensifies but nothing happens.  
  
He pushes himself, his focus turning sharper and where there was nothing now small points of light swirl in the reeking atmosphere of Hell. They remind of miniscule planets with their satellites orbiting in perfect sync around them.  
  


He can do this. He _will_ do this.  
  
He closes his eyes and pushes his light and his intent out into them. They swallow it up greedily, already parts of Hell, and he can feel himself, every fiber of his existence, being pulled and stretched.  
  
It hurts- but it's unlike any pain he has experienced so far. His very own sense of self is being stretched taut and he feels like he might snap and tear into pieces.  
  
He grits his teeth and holds his own against this urge. He can feel touching upon a piece of himself that he has never before reached, his light turning incandescent.  
  
It lasts for seconds or days,

hard to tell when all you can feel is this infinite stretching,

when a blinding ring of light bursts through him, spreading forcefully in every direction.  
  
He falls to his knees, physically and mentally exhausted.  
  
Light washes his face but it's not his own.  
  
He opens his eyes and looks upon them.  
  
His creations.  
  
He did it. He bloody well _did_ it.  
  
For the first time in countless years Lucifer smiles.  
  
  


Words are hardly necessary- they are part of him.  
  


The only children he will ever father- if he could call them as such.  
  
He still marvels somewhat at their creation- even his Father shared the burden of creation with his Mother.

But perhaps he is not as alone as he might think.  
  
He doesn't think he would have been able to if it hadn't been for Chloe.  
  
They are sentient and burdened with purpose but they lack something that is inherently Lucifer's.  
  
Desire.  
  
He certainly has enough to share but he found it cruel to gift them with the will to desire and then abandon them in this dreary place.  
  
They cannot miss, cannot ache for something they will never know of, will never understand.  
  
Like most of his siblings in a way.  
  
They stare at him with their bright red eyes, their bodies suffused with light.  
  
And that is what they are really.

Creatures of light, saturated with his divinity, sharing his life force and his thoughts.  
  
They will be his sentinels, his eyes, standing guard before the Gates. Their light is enough of a deterrent to keep the demons away but having eyes down here will keep his mind at peace.  
  
But two will never be enough.

He needs more time and more light. And some rest.

(Creating is exhaustive business. He is hardly surprised that his Father delegated so much.)  
  
So he waits, thankful that he can feel his power being replenished, and shows the newbies around.  
  
They hover on his sides like oversized versions of Peter Pan with wings made of pure light.  
  
The demons watch them from afar, not quite sure what to make of the new additions.  
  


  
And then more words come,

_And you will finally know what love is supposed to feel like._

and his hope swells like the sea and all his worries are swallowed up by its waves.  
  
The effects of her attention are immediate. He can feel his light simmering inside him and he can see their light burning brighter somehow.  
  
Their connection runs deeper than he thought.

  
  
The second time around it's easier-not less exhausting, no. But he knows what to expect, where to push harder.  
  
Two more stand before him, almost identical to the first ones. He realizes that perhaps he ought to give them names but after his father's epic failure at _that_ he refuses to do so.  
  
They can choose their own bloody names if they want to.  
  
Still he needs more.  
  
It's interesting, getting to know them. Admittedly, there's not much to know but he enjoys their single-mindedness and the way they defer to him (a hellish side effect of being King).  
  
He was surprised but very pleased to realize that they share a hive mind. Always connected to each other and to him. It will be useful and effective.  
  


For the first time he feels confident that this will work.

~*~

For an immortal being patience is a given.

Lucifer however always enjoyed being the exception to the rule. And now that he knows that his departure is mostly a matter of time, impatience plagues him. He vibrates with it, with the idea that some time, hopefully soon, he will see her again.  
  


And the more he thinks of his return the more he wonders…

Does she _truly_ want him back? Or is she simply trying to exorcise whatever feelings she has left?

_I miss you_

Will she be disappointed when he returns?

Surprised?

Happy?

  
His insecurities flare but hope remains ever-present.

It’s been some time since her last poem so having her voice back in his mind is a balm like no other, a soothing caress that makes his insecurities dissipate, like dew in the face of the sun.

Her voice plays in a constant loop in his mind,

_Some people are like beautiful dreamcatchers_

and merely the thought that she doesn’t see him only as a source of pain and misery makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, as Miss Lopez might say.

And with that thought he realizes just how much he has missed his other friends as well.

~*~

Something is changing. He barely has enough time for her new words to settle into him when more words come.

A cascade of love poems, close, too close to each other, that make his light flare with unrestrained happiness and just pure delight.

Could he be doing it? He has no bloody clue.

And he has no idea how that might affect Hell itself since there is no such precedent. He needs to hurry, which is easy considering that he is practically overflowing with light.

And so his small army grows some more.

When the words turn more desirous, he touches himself for the first time in long years. It’s not as good it _should_ be, it can never be, not here, but just the thought that she _wants_ him, _craves_ for him the same way he does, makes it better than it has ever been.

And now that her carnal desire is made clear his mind wastes no time- filling his empty time with fantasies that vary from soft, intimate kisses to very, _very_ naughty shagging.

He is almost ready for the last ones when her words turn sadder and more desperate- which absolutely _ruins_ him and makes his wings flare impatiently, aching to go to her.

But he can’t, not yet, not if he wants to do this right. He grits his teeth and waits, helpless and furious at being the cause of her misery.

Time, so much time

and despair, so much despair

and then

she is back.

Not like the other times. No poems and quotes this time. Just her.

His Detective, Chloe, open and honest and brokenhearted.

_I love you. I love you so much. Not despite what you are. No... I love you for everything that you are. The beautiful and the ugly. The kind and the cruel._

_I love you._

He cries silently, grateful beyond words for her love and promises to himself that he will do anything in his power to never hurt her again-should she accept him back.

_I want you back so much._

_I miss you. I want you. I love you._

Thankfully it won’t be long now. He has all the pieces. He needs to set everything in place and make the first move.

He struggles with whether he should tell the demons of his departure but in the end decides that they should be made aware at least of the consequences in case of disobedience.

So, he walks along the dark corridors, his voice no louder than usual but carrying through the stone and the distance since _he_ wills it so and lays down the law once more.

It couldn’t be simpler really.

No possession.

You stay in Hell, you stay alive.

He literally has eyes everywhere now so there is no hiding from him.

His sentinels are eager to start their work, guarding the Gate and patrolling, and he is more than eager to leave. At least for now.

Of course, he will be returning in the near future to ensure that everything is running smoothly.

His wings unfurl-aching and tense, more than ready for this flight that he has only dreamt of for countless of years.

He spares a look behind him-not so dark and dreary anymore. He feels better knowing that he is leaving a part of him behind.

And then he’s off.

_No grave can hold my body down_

_I’ll crawl home to her_

Everything is so disorienting after centuries spent in Hell.

  
He ends up at that same beach. The sun is blinding. The smell of the ocean overwhelms his nostrils and he revels in the awful cackles of sea gulls.

He is finally here.  
  
Back to the only place that has ever felt like home.  
  
He is unnervingly aware of both his excitement and his terror.  
  


He wants to run to her but at the same time he is hesitant.

“The Devil plagued by insecurities,” he mutters with a self-deprecating laugh.  
  


Either way, he can't show up on her doorstep raining ash wherever he goes.

He needs this smell, this taste that lingers in his mouth, gone.  
  
The beach has enough people around to make flight impossible so he does the next best thing-he hitches a ride. It doesn't take too long for the Devil to find someone all too willing to help.

  
(And so his first deal is struck after too many years. It's an emotional moment.)  
  
Lux is closed but locks have never been a problem to him. He rushes up to the stairs eager to see his home again.

For the first time he realizes that the Detective -Chloe- might actually be there, since the penthouse along with many more houses and other _things_ were to be transferred to her.

He takes a deep breath just before the elevator doors slide open, absolutely unprepared for this, his heart ready to jump out of his throat.

Once they do, his eyes roam the space hungrily looking for any evidence that the Decker women have been here. He finds none. 

The penthouse seems untouched. He walks slowly from room to room, only to confirm his original assumption. She never came here. 

His heart clenches.

Was it out of spite or heartache? Did she disregard everything or just this? 

The longer he stays rooted in space thinking, the more he feels like he never left Hell to begin with. 

But he did. Because she beckoned him. 

He takes a breath, shoving all these thoughts to the back, and moves to the bathroom eager to finally be rid of all this ash.

He is standing naked in front of his suits, wondering which one will be a better fit when the elevator dings with a new arrival. He freezes in place, a slight tremor in his hands, when he hears an all too familiar voice call out hesitantly,

“Lucifer?”

“Mazikeen!” he runs out holding a different shoe in each hand, wearing nothing but a wide smile on his face. Mazikeen, his right hand demon, fiercest torturer and protector, runs into his arms and hugs him and he can _actually_ feel wetness on his chest. His arms pull her tighter against him.

“You came back. I knew you’d find a way to come back. And, _oh_ , you smell like home,” she says and takes a long sniff at his neck.

“Your home Maze, not mine. How did you know that—“

“That you were here? Josh saw someone going up which freaked him out because he had locked everything. Tall guy defying all locks?”

“Not dashingly handsome man defying all locks?” he offers and flashes a grin that feels slightly off.

“Have you talked to her?”

Ah, straight for the kill his Maze.

“No. I _should_ call her. Maybe… warn her?” he asks with a chuckle. Are his hands shaking a little? He clenches his fists. “But I have no idea where my phone is.”

“Chloe has it. I gave it to her.”

“Oh,” he says but stops himself, a far bigger, far belated question forming on his lips. “Maze, how long has it been for you?”

“Not too long. A little over five months. You?”

Months. Just _months_.

“Too long Maze. _Too_ long.”

“Put something on so we can leave. I am picking up Trixie in a while.”

“Oh? Are you still living together then?”

“Yeap. Me and Decker are tight as shit now. You have some catching up to do.”

Best friends with a demon? This definitely bodes well for him.

“That I most certainly do!” he says and puts on his favourite blue suit. It’s high time he had some colour in his life.

He calls Linda from Maze’s phone on the way to the school. He has had a few hundreds of years to reflect on how wrong he was to stop therapy before. He is not as foolish now.

She is ecstatic (there may be tears as well) and promises to make as much room as is required. And to keep quiet for now.

When Beatrice sees him, the smile that stretches on her face is blinding. She runs to him and for once there is no inclination to pull away or stop her. He opens his arms in welcome, a timid smile on his face, and she crashes into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

He can feel her tears on his neck, and his heart clenches.

Is this how it feels to be loved with no expectations?

“You’re back! I knew you’d come if Mom asked you to! I am so happy you’re back,” she tells him pulling back and looking at him. “You’re hugging me,” she adds with a cheeky smile.

“What can I say urchin? I… have missed you. Very much so. Now, let me look at you! What has happened to you child? Is this… normal?” he asks taking in all the extra inches.

“It’s called a growth spurt Lucifer! I’m almost as tall as Mom! She is going to _lose_ it when she sees you!” she says excitedly, jumping up and down like a monkey.

How _apt_.

They drive back to their apartment in silence. Maze is driving one of his Mustangs. Well, not _his_ anymore.

Maze’s.

She keeps looking at him with an expression that is far too human. _Concern_.

“How hard was it?” she asks in Lilim.

“ _They_ weren’t hard to handle,” he replies.

No reason for hiding though anymore. “But the loneliness was.”

“Hey!” Trixie interjects. “I am not a baby! You can talk in front of me. Besides I know some Lilim,” she says proudly.

“Do you now urchin? Well, you certainly have been busy! So, lovely ladies, please do fill me in!”

And so they do.

From Disney nights to infernal languages and from art classes to knife throwing, Trixie is a whirlwind of words.

When they arrive, she runs ahead of them but Maze holds him back.

“The first two months were… difficult. But the prayers helped her.”

“Did you tell her that… she could…?”

“I did. And she talked to Amenadiel too.”

“Thank you. The prayers… they helped me as well. I—“

“You would have stayed.” He nods. “Lucifer. Thank you.”

“What on earth are you thanking me for?”

“For not asking me to come with you. Had you asked… I would have come but—“

“I know Maze. _Believe_ me, I do. Besides, someone had to stay behind to look after them! My dullard of a brother was not enough and—“

“Hey, are you coming or what?” Beatrice calls exasperated.

“Come on,” Maze says grabbing his arm. “Gotta find something to feed you!”

He doesn’t eat. His stomach is in knots. Beatrice keeps teasing him about being nervous and, well, she is right.

He is more than nervous. He is downright petrified. He paces and checks the clock obsessively, his hand wrapped around a tumbler that never seems to go empty.

His favourite whiskey. Here, in the Detective’s home.

He fixes his hair in their bathroom too many times, until Maze slaps him (no pain unfortunately) and sits him down on the sofa.

They watch TV and chat but the Devil’s mind cannot settle. He is too aware of his own breath, of the beating of his heart, of the way he can still taste sulfur on his tongue.

When he hears footsteps approaching, his breath gets stuck in his throat and he waits frozen on that bloody sofa.

_When I was kissing on my baby_

_And she’d put her love down soft and sweet_

_In the low lamp light I was free_

_Heaven and hell were words to me_

Then the door opens and he sees her,

golden hair wild around her face,

eyes as blue as the sky

as the sea,

and suddenly his body feels too small to contain all that he is feeling.

He stares and their eyes meet just for a moment and he feels whole again-all his pieces finally in place.

But quickly, too quickly she turns around and, quite unexpectedly, bangs her head against the door.

He stands at once but his feet remain rooted in the ground, too terrified to move closer.

“You know what? I think I’ll just make that appointment with Linda after all,” she says and his heart breaks at her words.

“Tough luck, Detective,” he says, trying to infuse his voice with as much humor as he can. “I am afraid the good doctor is booked solid for the next month. By the Devil, of course.”

She still hasn’t turned around but he finds it impossible to stay away any longer.

“Chloe, I… I could leave if—“

_If this is too much_

_If I you have changed your mind_

_If all you can see in me is Hell_

But then she does turn around and looks at him with those eyes, with that liquid blue and he can _see_ her _,_

all that she is

her very essence

brimming in that blue

in that sea

that he would willingly lose himself in.

Not _lose_ , no.

She has always been the one helping him find himself.

All those pieces of his soul that he had buried to survive in the past, she has unearthed.

All those walls that he had built, she has made them crumble to pieces.

His hands move slowly to her face, wiping away tears that do not belong there. What can he tell her in this moment to make her see?

To know that it has always been her?

He follows the example she has set, hoping to please her.

“For whatever we lose, like a you or a me,” he lets his fingers glide over her lips, her cheeks, the hollow under her eyes, “it’s always our self we find in the sea.”

She pulls him to her, surprising him and just the thought of her lips on his is enough to make his heart stop—

And maybe it does, he wouldn’t know

because her lips are on his

and oh it’s been so long, so _bloody_ long

and all his fantasies fade into tragic mediocrity

the taste of her skin, _Chloe, all Chloe_ ,

and her smell and her fingers on his skin—

he never wants the kiss to end but there is a very excited audience behind them so he pulls away reluctantly and stares at her, hoping that his eyes can reflect this overwhelming explosion of emotions inside him.

“That was Cummings, you know. Don’t try to sell it off as your own.”

Her words are unexpected but they put a bright smile on his face.

“I wouldn’t dream of it Detective! Not with a poetry connoisseur as yourself,” he teases, delighted. And because he _is_ the Devil, he can’t help but tease some more.

“Though, I must confess I am dying to know how this fixation with Mr. _Cumming—“_

Her lips mold to his, effectively cutting him off.

_Oh._

She can shut him up like this _any_ time she wants.

And it’s still so chaste but he doesn’t care so long as it’s her lips on his.

Then she asks him if he is here to stay.

_Forever_ , he wants to say.

“Is that something you… desire?” he asks instead, his voice a timid, frightened thing.

Embarrassing, really.

“You either have a really, _really_ thick skull or you just really enjoy hearing me say it. Lucifer, _I love you_ ,” she says,

and his heart, soars to the skies like a bird.

“Please, stay. Stay and give this a chance.”

_Yes_ , he wants to cry and run into her arms, a starving man and her love his only nourishment.

But, he can’t, not yet. There is still a wall between them that she can’t see and can’t tear down.

Hell.

Only he can do that.

So, he uses humor instead, as he always did, hoping to put a smile on her face.

“You think we’re ready Detective? It’s only ever been five long years!”

She laughs as intended, and a deal is struck with the promise of a date.

It feels surreal but it’s not,

it’s true,

it’s real,

she’s right here and so is he and his heart is full to burst and she _has to_ know,

“Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born. You are my sun, my moon and all my stars.”

“Cumming—“

Two can play at this game, so he kisses her, pouring centuries of want into the kiss, no longer chaste, and hopes with all his might that he can do this, that he can be worthy of her love.

He may back, but Hell still lives inside him.

Will she be able to accept it, to accept him?

Will she be able to love what he was once again forced to become?

He hopes he can be strong enough to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics is by Hozier
> 
> The poems that Lucifer recites  
> 1\. the potter by Pablo Neruda  
> 2\. Excerpts from e.e. cummings
> 
> As always thank you for reading!


	4. Electrical Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer struggles with his fear of rejection and self hatred.  
> Thank *someone*, the Detective knows exactly what to do to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, final chapter for this little thing that turned into something different than originally planned.
> 
> This chapter takes all the credit for the M rating.
> 
> Soft, insecure devil is very close to my heart.  
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Also a special thanks to thepoisonofgod❤

_It’s hot as hell honey in this room_

_Sure hope the weather will break soon_

_The air is heavy, heavy as a truck_

_We need the rain to wash away our bad luck_

  
Days go by. He is always there present in the periphery of her life. After so long apart he finds it impossible to stay away. But he doesn’t return to his old job, at least not yet.

His days are filled with too much Linda. Since there is already established familiarity between them it's ridiculously easy for everything to tumble out of him, despite the time gap that stretches like an enormous maw between them since he last saw her.  
  


Linda who has seen him at his worst and stood steadfast by his side.  
  


Linda who knows exactly what questions to ask.

Linda who brings to the surface too many feelings and fears that he does not want to admit or face.  
  
Chloe is there, ever patient, eager to help him in whatever way she can. And he is unimaginably grateful.  
  
But what can he tell her?

He can barely voice his fears to himself, let alone to her.  
  
He wears his smiles like he used to in the past but he is afraid that she _knows_. That she can see right through him with those eyes.  
  
_I am fine darling_ , he says.

  
_I just need a little time_ , he says, not quite a lie.  
  
He holds her on her sofa watching mindless TV and he kisses her goodnight,

small, (too) chaste kisses that he both loves and hates, unwilling to carry his nightmares to her bed.  
  
He is a tangled mess of fear and want.  
  
And watching her look at him the way she does-eyes soft and full of love for _him_ \- makes him hate himself a little more.  
  
A week goes by. Ten days.

Most of his sessions so far have been focused on Hell. How he felt, how he coped, how he managed to make his departure possible.  
  
He has her undivided attention- Linda is all ears and contemplative eyes. But her expression rarely gives something away.  
  
Today they are focusing on the _now_.  
  
_How are you feeling Lucifer?  
_  
He tells her about the smells, the brightness of the sun and music. So much music.  
  
She asks again. Stressing the word _feeling_ rather theatrically if you ask him.  
  
"Well, bloody thrilled Doctor," he says but she doesn't seem convinced.  
  
"Just _thrilled_ Lucifer?" she asks him calmly, her eyes penetrating. "You have not been by the precinct at all despite the deal you made with Chloe."

"As I have told the Detective, I just need a little time to... adjust." He fixes his cufflinks.

"How _are_ things between you and Chloe?"  
  


"Lovely."  
  


"Have you made plans for your date yet?"  
  


"Not yet, no." His fingers twist his onyx ring compulsively.  
  


"Any specific reason why not? I mean, I imagined that you would be full of grand ideas and plans and rather eager to _finally_ become romantically involved with Chloe. Have you changed your mind? Hmm? Perhaps you have come to realize upon your return that a possibly exclusive relationship is not for you. I mean it's not like you've been spending your nights with her. Maybe she is not enough anymore."  
  


He feels his eyes flash crimson as his anger flares. He blinks furiously, annoyed at his lack of control.  
  


"That's..." he takes a deep breath, " _that_ is utter rubbish. The Detective, _Chloe_ , is more than enough Linda. _Of course_ I want to be with her. I, just..."  
  


"Yes?"  
  


"I need more time."  
  


"Why Lucifer?"  
  


He glares at the tiny, elegantly dressed woman.  
  


The urge to leave as he always used to when Linda pushed him more than he liked is intense.  
  


But he doesn't.  
  


Instead he stands, pacing obsessively before her, hands pulling at perfectly coiffed hair.  
  


He stops suddenly and stands at a shadowy spot, eyes drilling holes on the opposite wall.  
  


"I am angry."  
  


"Are you? Why on earth would you be feeling angry? You are finally back. Surrounded by all these people who love you. Why would you be feeling angry?"  
  


"Because it's _my_ bloody fault. All of it. From the very beginning. If I cared more, if I had been more responsible, demons would never have come here in the first place..."  
  


"That might be true, but then you would have never met Chloe and I would have never come to know you and Amenadiel. Many crimes would have remained unsolved and Chloe might have been shot by Malcolm or murdered by professor Carlisle or stabbed by a suspect. Who knows? The possibilities are endless!"  
  


"You can bloody well stop doctor," he warns, all his protective instincts going haywire, his wings aching to unfurl. "Fair point, well made. But I was supposed to be their king. I shouldn't have left them unsupervised. Eve, Chloe ,your son and all those murdered people...."  
  


"You cannot be held responsible for their atrocities Lucifer."  
  


"Oh, can't I?" he asks her, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Whether I like it or not those creatures belong to me. I should have been there to prevent it."  
  


"Do you think that you should still punish yourself over it, even after hundreds of years? You did not choose this responsibility. It was thrust upon you. And yet when you could choose to be selfish, you chose self-sacrifice instead. That says a lot about how much you have _grown_ Lucifer. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you to walk away from Chloe after having her profess her love to you. You should try to be kinder to yourself."  
  


"Kinder?" he whispers and he can feel the tremble in his hands. "I feel leeched of any kindness I had left. You cannot stay in Hell for as long as I did and still be— 

still be..."  
  


"Good? Kind? Loving?"  
  


He just stares daggers at her for he can see where this is going.  
  


"That's not what I’ve been told. Tender, sweet, timid are some adjectives that Chl—"  
  
"Because she does not _know_!" he bellows, his fury finally finding a tangible outlet. "She has no _bloody_ idea the kind of creature I was forced to become again."  
  


"Why don't you tell her then?" She asks, her voice sharper. He returns to the sofa and leans on his legs, head between his hands.  
  


"Forgive me Linda."  
  


"It's alright Lucifer. I’ve had worse. This is progress."  
  


He laughs, a bitter, angry sound.  
  


"Why don't you tell her?" she asks again, voice softer, more compelling.  
  


"Is it not obvious doctor? I am terrified. The fear of her rejection rattles me down to my very bones. She has run in the past. What if she runs again?"  
  


"Lucifer, you cannot let this fear rule you. Especially after everything you've been through. Has she shown you in any way that she is not accepting of you?"  
  


"No," he replies sullenly.  
  


"Then don’t you think that you owe it to yourself to talk to her and put this behind you?"  
  


"Right!" he says slapping his thighs and standing up. " _Lovely_ talk! Tomorrow doctor?"  
  


He's out before she can reply.

_You’re in my mind all of the time_

_I know that’s not enough_

_If the sky can crack there must be some way back_

_For love and only love_

  
  


He knows Linda is right. He knows he should be looking for Chloe.  
Instead he chooses to distract himself with his old, human vices. He drinks and smokes, watching his skin turn red once more as his thoughts spiral into despair.

The worst scenario—

  
Chloe changing her mind  
  


and leaving  
  


or asking him to leave  
  


is playing in a constant loop in his mind.  
  
When he sees her name flash on the screen of his phone he smiles despite his awful mood, ecstatic even at this little show of affection, and makes to answer when he realizes that he is still wearing his devilish skin.

He does not want her to hear him like this.  
  


No matter what she claims.  
  
After a while she calls again. And again. Then she texts.  
  
_Hey. Are you alright? You didn't call after your session as you usually do and you never showed up tonight. I am worried. Please call me.  
_  
He tries to text but these hands and claws are not meant for such flimsy gadgets.

His phone breaks.  
  


He glares at the device, anger and depression fighting for dominance inside him, and the bloody thing gets incinerated on the spot.  
  
He takes a deep breath, not wanting to set anything else on fire and crawls in a dark corner, his wings wrapping around him.  
  
It hasn’t been long when he hears the ding of the elevator.  
  


He panics because only Chloe and Maze have the password and he does not want to discover this very moment whether Chloe would be as _accommodating_ as the last time.

He can't imagine this specific sight becoming fond in her memories.  
  


But the sound of her voice, scared and heavy with tears, draws him out of his hiding place at once.  
  
"Chloe?" He asks and his voice grates his own ears in the small space.  
  


She turns to the sound of his voice and relief is painted clearly on her face.  
  


She literally runs to him, falling into his arms with no second thought.

His thought processes come to a screeching halt.

His arms wrap instinctively around her.

  
"You're here," she whispers brokenly. "You're here."

She repeats it again and again, the words uttered with such love, such devotion as if they were a benediction, a prayer, a blessing.  
  
"Darling... Did you think I... had left?" he asks hesitantly.  
  


She hums in confirmation and he can feel the first tears on his ragged skin. His guilt wraps its thorny limbs around his heart, adding more fuel to this toxic concoction brewing inside him.  
  


"I-I" she stutters, "I thought about it."  
  


"I am not going anywhere. Not unless you send me away." She presses her face into the crook of his neck, his chest vibrating with her shaky breaths. "I just didn't want to speak to you... like this."  
  


"Why?" she asks, clearly perplexed.  
  


"I—" he starts but that's as far as he goes.  
  


She pulls back, her eyes shiny and her lips frowning unhappily.  
  


"Was your therapy session very hard today?"  
  


Her hands frame his face and blue meets red as she stares at him, unafraid and concerned.

For him.  
  


"Ah, you could say that."  
  


"You know you can talk to me Lucifer, don't you? Whatever it is that’s hurting you, I want to help."  
  


Her fingers on his cheeks are ridiculously distracting so he doesn't realize her intention until it's too late.

Her lips are almost on his when he pulls back shocked.  
  


She looks at him, contrite and ...hurt?  
  


"Um, sorry I didn't realize you didn't want?" she half stutters, half rushes through the words.  
  


"Why?” he asks flabbergasted. “Why would you _even_ want to when—

when I’m like this?"

He gestures at his red, mangled skin, utterly baffled.  
  


"You are still _you_ Lucifer. And I love you. All of you. It took me a while but I figured it out eventually," she says with a smile and leans in again, slower this time.

He doesn't move-he _can't_ \- and then her lips, so soft, so unbearably soft, press against his and

  
_Oh, it's pure bliss, perfection  
_  
but it's wrong.  
  


It's so wrong because she doesn't _know_ , she doesn't.  
  


"Chloe, I did horrible things. I was violent and spiteful and destructive. I –

I don't deserve you."  
  


"Lucifer you were in _Hell_. Keeping us and humanity safe, punishing those responsible and maintaining order. I am not naive enough to think that Hell's sense of justice follows the same rules as ours does. I am not scared or judgmental or disgusted by anything that you did. I am only worried about _you_. That you had to suffer through that all alone,” she says and more tears spill from her lovely eyes. “You can tell me details if you wish, I will always want to listen. And I am not going anywhere either," she says and this time he recognizes her intention and he lets himself get lost in the gentleness of her kiss.

  
Eve had kissed him like this, fearless and wanting, always wanting, but she is the first woman- the beauty and horror of celestials was nothing new to her.  
  


But to have Chloe kiss his scorched skin with such tenderness is another experience altogether.  
  


It's the warmth of the sun,  
  


the gentle breeze of the sea,  
  


the sweetness of a ripe cherry  
  


painting willing lips red.  
  


It's everything.  
  
They end up in his bed, face to face, while he tells her of Hell. She doesn't cringe, doesn't pull away, doesn't frown disapprovingly.  
  


When she grows too tired she snuggles up to him as if he has _anything_ soft to offer, and falls asleep in his arms.  
  


He has never felt more blessed.  
  


_Never._  
  
When he wakes up the next morning it's to fingers carding through his hair, to smiling eyes and delicious kisses.  
  
He makes her a perfect cup of coffee and tangles his feet with hers as she enjoys it in his rarely used kitchen.  
  
She smiles and his lips curl upwards with no conscious thought.  
  
"Detective, Chloe... Are you busy next Saturday?"  
  


She smiles over the rim of her mug.  
  


"Not really, no."  
  


"Would you like to go on a date with me?"  
  


She leans into him, a barely there kiss- just a hint of coffee and Chloe and just _pure_ joy.  
  


"I would love to."

That gives him five days. More than enough time for the Devil to set up the best date ever.

He talks with Linda. He cooks for the Decker household.

  
Day by day their kisses grow more heated, more intense. But still he doesn’t stay.  
  
She doesn't push. Oh, but her eyes speak. Lucifer knows desire when he sees it and her eyes spin their own tales.  
  


He wants them. He wants them all with a despair that has long now burrowed in his heart.

On Wednesday night, among her goodnight kisses Chloe asks him to stay and he wants- _oh how he wants_ -but unexpectedly he finds himself experiencing an emotion never before associated with sex.

He is nervous.  
  


What if he doesn't live up to her expectations?

What if he can't perform properly?

Chloe has been his only weakness in his very long life.  
  


What if she has adverse effects in _that_ matter too?  
  


What is she turns him into a one pump chump?  
  
Gosh, the _sheer_ horror.  
  
He declines politely, more stressed than he ever thought he could be, and uses their deal as an excuse to delay the inevitable.  
  
Because that's what it is. Inevitable. He dreams of her every night and when he touches himself he comes with her name on his lips, like a bloody prayer.  
  
And he has prayed plenty these past few days. It's high time he did the worshipping.  
  
He plans obsessively. The Detective deserves only the best.  
  
But as dear John had said, life is what happens when you are busy making plans.  
  
And happen it does.  
  
Their date is set for Saturday night- that is tomorrow.

Beatrice has been kind enough to provide him with certain information he deemed necessary- for a price of course. So, when the urchin's sole demand is delivered, he is eager to fulfil his side of the deal as well.

So, envelope in hand he makes his way to the Decker household.  
  
Maze lets him in with a gruff “Shower” (yes, it's true he no longer barges in) and then promptly takes off for Lux.

Disappointingly, the urchin isn't home but he can't leave, not without seeing the Detective. The thought of her in her tiny shower is more than enough to turn him ridiculously hard but he has a _plan_.

He distracts himself in her kitchen, or at least tries to.

He is making some coffee when he hears the softest padding on the stairs. He turns around just in time to watch the Detective aim her gun at him, wrapped in nothing but a towel, water still dripping down her hair.  
  
Is this what mortal men feel when they are having a heart attack?  
  
Could he suffer one in her presence?  
  
"I thought it was a burglar," she tells him releasing the breath she was holding. She places the gun, safety back on, on the table and closes the distance between them.  
  


He clears his throat, his heart still hammering.  
  


"This feels very reminiscent," he says with a soft smile gesturing at the towel, hoping his voice is not as breathy as he _thinks_ it is.  
  
"It is, isn't it?" she says, her lips pulling into half a smile. "And then if I _remember_ correctly this happened," she says and lets her towel drop to the floor.

His eyes widen just a bit. They wander the planes of her body, unable to settle, following water droplets that shine like pearls, waiting to be discovered.  
  


His fingers itch at his sides, aching to touch.  
  


She moves even closer. Wet hands cradle his cheeks, caress his sideburns, trace the shape of his eyes. And all the while he stares spellbound, limbs frozen.  
  
"What are you so afraid of?" she asks in a whisper, her eyes locked with his, as she takes his hands and places them on her waist. His thumb moves in a semi-circle, caressing wet skin.

"Lucifer." Right. She asked a question. He looks back into her eyes.

"That I'll disappoint you," his confession spills out, a reverse effect.

"Oh, baby," she says with a smile, and the endearment, one he has heard so many times, floors him. She kisses over his heart and he is a silent blaze of want.

"You could never. Besides, this isn't a one-time thing that you have to make perfect. Hopefully, this will be the first of many," she says, looking up at him, and it's her eyes that finish him.  
  


Those blue eyes that burn with the same fire that is consuming him.

_Let’s see colours that have never been seen_

_Let’s go to places no one else has been_  
  


They kiss. It's soft as all their kisses are in the beginning but then her tongue glides over his lips and things change. His hands move to that lovely backside, giving it a proper squeeze before lifting her up and into his arms. He wants to be rid of all these clothes so he can feel her skin on his but he can't let go of her.  
  


"Bedroom," she whispers before biting his lip, making him groan at the sensation, reminding him that everything is so much more when he is with her.  


He obeys walking blindly towards their destination, unwilling to remove his lips from her skin. When he lays her on her bed an overwhelming feeling of adoration washes over him.  
  


He is out of words for once but he hopes the smattering of kisses he leaves all over her lovely face are enough for her to know, to see that she is everything.

Her smile tells him that she just might.  
  


Lips and hands move lower slowly over a graceful neck and down to the promising dip between her collarbones. This is uncharted territory and he longs to explore every inch of skin, every nook and cranny.  
  


She shivers and he knows it's not from the cold.  
  


He wants to ask her,

_what do you desire?_

but the answer will not slip from her lips as effortlessly as he is used to, so he keeps his lips busy on her skin, insecurities eating at him even in this very moment.  
  


He moves lower still, to her breasts that have been the stars of his fantasies ever since he realized who she was.  
  


He licks the water still clinging to the sensitive flesh and revels in her breathy little moans. His tongue circles those pale nipples and he groans once her hands slip into his hair. They card through his locks, nails dragging along his scalp and _oh_ he wants those fingers everywhere. He kisses and licks and sucks for a long time, determined to take his time, lavishing them with all the attention they deserve.  
  
Something keeps building inside him-her shivers echo in quakes under his skin and while still fully clothed he feels electrified.  
  
Eagerly he moves lower still. His lips leave their own trail on her ribcage and that perfect dip of her navel, around sharp hipbones and down that thin, pinkish scar.  
  


He drags his nose through the folds of her sex, her scent intoxicating. He planned to tease and tease until she begged him for it but it seems like he might be the one doing the begging.  
  


He kisses her clitoris, a wet lingering kiss that makes both of them groan.  
  


"Lucifer," she breathes out, her voice wanton and soft; how honored, how privileged he feels to be privy to this part of her.

  
Her fingers tighten in his hair when his tongue laps at her wetness and _bloody hell_ he has never tasted anything more delicious than her.  
  
He kisses and licks and sucks making her tremble and moan. His hands squeeze her ass but she pulls one of them to her breast. He stills for a moment and their eyes lock. To have her look at him like that-it breathes life into his wildest fantasies, it disarms him completely. The hand still sunk in his hair moves to his face, cradling his cheek while her thumb runs over his lips. He kisses it and watches her bite her lip when his hand massages her breast, fingers softly rolling that perfect nipple.  
  
He is desperate for her climax, maybe more so than Chloe herself. He wants to hear, to see, to taste the peak of her pleasure with a burning intensity.  
  


The first of _many_ , as she so eloquently said.  
  
He lets her guide him, pull him closer, and he follows the motion of her hips reverently. He teases her entrance with his finger and she whimpers when he pushes it inside her.  
  
It's hot and incredibly tight and wet, _so_ wet for _him_ , _because_ of him. It drives him to frenzy, his hips pushing helplessly into the mattress to relieve his ache.  
  


With his finger slowly fucking her, she grinds against his face, her moans growing in intensity, her hand tightening in his hair—

  
and then what a _glorious_ moment—

feeling her muscles clenching around his finger, her taste made sharper and then his name on her lips half a whisper, half a moan,  
  


"Luce—"

and then _bliss_.  
  
This is it. This is his very own piece of heaven- between the thighs of the woman he loves.  
  
His kisses turn softer, gentler as she rides the high of her orgasm and he intends to slowly kiss his way up but she meets him halfway, her mouth crashing to his, a kiss all teeth and tongue, all fire and passion.  
  


"Did you enjoy it?" he asks like any bloke would, desperate for her praise.  
  


"Lucifer, baby, that was... _amazing_ ," she whispers against his smiling lips, "but you are wearing too much."  
  


And thus begins the most frantic undressing he has ever performed. It seems funny in the beginning, the fumbling fingers and pulling of fabric, but as the seconds tick by he becomes increasingly more desperate to feel her skin on his.

When she squeezes him over his pants he groans, and lays his head on her shoulder, surrendering to her touch.  
  


"Lay down for me," she whispers and kisses the shell of his ear. He obeys and she wastes no time, getting rid of his pants and hovering over him on all fours.  
  


She kisses right under his ear, his neck, the base of his throat.  
  


"I could always see all these freckles, taunting me. Now, finally, I can taste them. I can taste _you_."

She kisses down his chest and his abdomen and he fears he might explode out of sheer excitement. The thought of her mouth, of her lips anywhere near his cock is enough to undo him. When she reaches his hips, she stops and stares at him.  
  


"Chloe?"  
  


"Nothing, it's nothing," she says, eyes shining.  
  


"Darling—"  
  


"I just can't believe you’re really here," she says, kissing his palm as he cradles his face.  
  


"I am," he assures her, but then she leans down and licks his cock from base to tip and instead of sweet words of comfort he lets out an expletive he almost _never_ uses.  
  


She kisses the head, a hot open mouthed kiss that makes him want to beg in the most undignified of ways, and them thankfully she takes him in her mouth and starts licking and sucking.

He moans -a lot- her name leaving his lips in a few minutes more times than he has ever uttered it altogether.   
  


Her hand pumps him at the same time and the way she sucks and licks at the head of his cock is pure bliss.

But he wants his arms full of Detective when he comes.  
  


"Darling, pl-ooooh- please come -ung-close to me," he begs her and with a final kiss she obliges him.  
  


"Um, if you like something else you can te—"  
  


He stops her with a searing kiss, licking his taste off her tongue as he wraps her in his arms.  
  


"That, my love, was utter perfection but I want you in my arms when—" he trails off, bashful for the first time ever.

What has become of him?  
  


"When you come?" she whispers against his lips, biting him softly, her hand back to pumping him.  
  


"Yes," he agrees,

  
And it's rapture.

Chloe's hand tightly wrapped around his cock, eyes locked and her gorgeous breasts right there for him to kiss and suck.

One of his hands finds its way to her cunt, still so wet that it makes him dizzy, and starts caressing her swollen clit, hungry for any and every morsel of pleasure he can glean from her.

He traces circles on her clit and caresses those velvety lips. He taps and tugs at that sensitive bundle of flesh, thirsty and eager for the knowledge of what sets her off.  
  


And the closer she gets, the tighter she grips him and _gosh_ was wanking ever so good?

  
"Darling I-" he barely manages to hiss before he explodes, spilling all over his stomach and her hands. He tries to catch his breath, eyes tightly closed, her hand still pumping softly, when he feels her mouth on him again.   
  


“Fucking hell,” he curses, thoroughly enjoying what feels like a second orgasm.  
  


When she returns to his arms he kisses her, long and sweet, trying to ground himself, to remind him that this is no elaborate fantasy but reality.  
  


"You will be the death of me," he says and she laughs, happy and carefree, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She turns to her nightstand and brings some wipes, cleaning his stomach with gentle movements.  
  


"I love making you smile," he blurts out, because it's the truth.  
  


"I love it too."  
  


"And coming. I absolutely love making you come." Also true.  
  


"I really like that too," she says with a smile. And as they lie in each other’s arms, his hand returns to her clit, ready to finish what he started. They kiss, sweetly and hungrily with lips and teeth, as he makes her unravel with his fingers.  
  


When she comes he swallows her moans with kisses and then licks his fingers clean unabashedly, making her blush.  
  


"Um, there are condoms but I am on the pill so-" she trails off offering the choice to him.  
  


"Whichever you want darling," he says and she pulls him on top of her, her cunt hot on his skin.  
  


Having her under him like this, naked and full of want, is a dream that has been sheltered in his heart for countless years, one that he never wishes to wake up from.

_electrical storm_

_electrical storm  
baby don’t cry_

"You are a vision," he tells her as she guides him slowly inside—

  
and oh  
  


even for him  
  


the king of carnal pleasures  
  


this is so new  
  


and it has been so horribly long—

  
His thrusts are slow and shallow at first, her cunt so deliciously tight around his cock, waiting for her body to adjust to him and  
  


_damn him_ _  
  
_

was sex always so bloody perfect?  
  


"Are you alright darling?" he manages to ask, voice hoarse.  
  


" _Yes_. Don't stop," she tells him as her legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper. They both moan when he bottoms out inside her, finally one, and he stills, their eyes locked, the sweetest kind of ache filling his heart.  
  


He has no words for it,  
  


no words for this lovely ache.  
  


He surrenders to it, to hundreds of years of wanting, of yearning, and kisses her like he'll never have the chance to do it again.  
  


But he will. He will.  
  


" _Chloe_ , you feel perfect," he tells her, his hips undulating, and he

doesn't want to stop,  
  


doesn't want this to end,  
  


doesn't want to be apart from her now that he knows how it feels to be one with her.  
  


"Hold me," she tells him and he pushes his hands under her back, hands curling over her shoulders, and pulls her flush to him.  
  
There is no space left between them, no pockets of air between their skins, the seam between their bodies barely noticeable.  
  
Her fingers rake up and down his back, squeezing his arse, her nails digging into his flesh,  
  


and he hisses,  
  


his pleasure spiking and he wants her to fall with him.  
  


"Chloe," he whispers, biting her neck and then kissing it to soften the sting, her moans music to his ears, "tell me what you want darling."  
  


She kisses him.  
  


She kisses him like she is the desert and he the rain.  
  


Like she needs his lips more than the air she breathes.  
  


And he _loves_ it, he loves it but it hurts, it _hurts_ to feel this desperate longing.

He doesn't want it for her, he never did.  
  


"Don't let go of me. Please, don't. You, I only want _you_ ," she says, her eyes wet. "I fear I'll wake up and you'll be gone. I—"  
  


He kisses the corners of her eyes, drinking her tears,  
  


"Chloe... I am not going anywhere. I'm yours and I'm staying for as long as you shall have me."

  
"Okay," she says and more tears slip from her eyes. "Okay," and kisses the tip of his nose.  
  
He turns them around then and marvels at the sight of her, wild golden mane, swollen lips, rosy cheeks and flushed breasts.  
  


He could look at her forever.  
  


Their fingers knot over his head and she starts to move, slowly at first and then with more confidence. Her breasts are tantalizing, with their sway and how they brush against his chest. He wants his hands on them but for now he remains her willing prisoner.  
  
When she leans on him,  
  


with her hair all around him,  
  


her scent imbuing his very skin,  
  


her taste on his lips  
  


and that perfect fit-  
  


he realizes why.  
  


Why people invoke his Father's name at the peak of their pleasure.  
Because this, right now, feels more divine to him than anyone or anything the Silver City would have to offer combined.  
  
"You are simply divine."  
  


"You are not bad yourself," she says with a smile and he pins her under him again.  
  


"No respect for the King of Hell I see," he says with mock offence and narrowed eyes, hips undulating.  
  


She laughs and so does he and they kiss, smiles and teeth clashing.  
  


The different position though brings forth a new urgency.  
  


"I want to hear you. I want to feel you come around me," he whispers huskily, his hands back on her breasts.  
  


"Touch me," she says and he's all too eager to obey. One of his hands stays with her breasts, caressing and pinching while the other goes to her clit, rubbing it just the way she likes it (privileged knowledge that he now possesses).  
  


She pulls him closer to kiss him, hands framing his face, her thumbs caressing his cheeks and his heart melts at the tenderness. His hand tangles in her hair, foreheads pressed together, kissing her until she's out of breath.

Thunder and lightning roil inside him making his eyes blaze crimson but she doesn’t wince or flinch—

She holds his gaze, her eyes a blue inferno, and whispers his name wantonly against his lips.

She grinds against him, the grip of her legs tightening, pulling him deeper, while her hands rake down his back between his shoulder blades and that touch right _there_ combined with that little bit of pain makes him lose what tenuous little control he had.  
  


He comes with an embarrassingly long moan and as if coming before her isn't offence enough, his wings unfurl with a sharp, almost violent snap.

He ignores the bloody things and keeps moving with short, shallow thrusts- his orgasm making him shiver, rows and rows of feathers vibrating with carnal bliss.  
  
She gently pries his hand from her and pulls him in her embrace, his head laying over her heart, hearing its frantic drumming.  
  
All that talk only to prove himself to be a _two pump chump_.

Her fingers are playing with his hair and he feels her lips on his forehead.

Tender, loving.

"I'm sorry," he says breathless, embarrassed.  
  


"Why are you apologizing?" she asks with a disbelieving laugh. "For the wings? I don't mind. Um, either set," she says and he can feel the blush down to her chest.  
  


"Well," he laughs dryly, "that too, but mostly for... not... making you come."  
She tilts his head up, her expression confused.  
  


"Lucifer, that was incredible. _Perfect_. So much better than anything I had imagined," she says and her eyes are close to tears again.  
  


"Darling please don't cry," he begs, hands cradling her face, feeling helpless.  
  
"Shit," she cries, wiping away tears. And then she laughs, tears still streaming down her face.  
  
"Lucifer… I don’t know what to say… Having you back in my life, in my arms is beyond my wildest dreams. I am _so_ happy, I have no words for it.”

_I love you_

The words dance in his mouth, frantic and out of reach.

“Chloe…”  
  
She kisses him then, with a desperate longing that strips him bare. The only thing he can do is show her his own.

Limbs tangle again and their lips leave burning trails on bodies.  
  
Perhaps he ought to let her rest but they are both still too ravenous for each other.

They try different positions pleasuring one another with mouths and lips and hands.

And despite all his extravagant sex-escapades, just the fact that he can taste himself in her folds in enough to completely annihilate him.

In some inexplicable way,

she is _his_ ;

his to touch,

his to hold,

his to kiss,

his to love.

When they come together again, their movements are slow and languid but their eyes stay locked in an intense stare, a silent communion of love and desire.

And this time when he feels the peak of her pleasure, her muscles clenching deliciously around him, he joins her and they fall together into this new thing that has been given life between the two of them tonight.  
  


  
Later, he finds himself on her bed- his body half-covering and curling around hers, his cheek pressed against her left breast, over her heart. He memorizes the sound, this most precious rhythm, the only tether he has ever allowed.

He spent so many years, too many, steeped in pain and misery but he would not change a single thing.

Not when it has brought him here, enveloped in her love.

She needs to know-he needs to tell her.

She has more than bared her soul to him. Now it's his turn.

He kisses her jaw to draw her attention. She kisses his nose and smiles sleepily at him.  
  


“Chloe…There has never been anyone like you.  
  


Never.

You make me want to be better.

When you look at me… I feel loved.

I feel like I am capable of goodness.  
  


And I would wait hundreds of years more to be with you.”

_I love you_

  
“Lucifer, my sweet, sweet devil… I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from U2's 'Electrical Storm'
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the beginning of each segment belong to Radiohead's 'Nude'. So does the chapter-title.
> 
> This will have a happy ending.


End file.
